The Fall
by AmyMoriarty
Summary: MorMor [Jim Moriarty X Sebastian Moran] After Jim faked his death, Sebastian has found it hard to cope without his beloved consulting criminal. People say that memories are nice things to look back on, but is that the case for Sebastian?


**Sebastian Moran X Jim Moriarty [BBC Sherlock]**

 **If you don't like the ship MorMor, then don't read this.**

 **WARNING: Drugs and alcohol are mentioned briefly in this story – DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED BY SMALL MENTIONS.**

The Fall. That's what everyone had called it, well the public and the press anyway. But me, I preferred to call it, 'The Day Jim shot his brains out and decided to leave me'. That's what I called it. I remember that day, watching it all happen. Watching as the famous Sherlock Holmes, and the infamous James Moriarty battle it out on the roof top, with nothing but their wit, intellect and stupid secret nonsense! I'd watched it all bloody happen! I had to watch, as Jim brought the gun to his mouth and shoot himself in the head. Watch, as Sherlock just stared at his lifeless body on the floor and do nothing!

I should have shot Sherlock where he stood! I wont ever forget that mistake I made.

I'm not a man who can easily be influenced by emotion. Then again, I don't let many people in my life who could cause me pain, but he was an exception. Jim caused me pain, but it was a bitter sweet pain; a pain that I could live with.

That man was the only person I had learnt to call a friend and a lover.

We first met when I was looking for a job and an employer. I had been kicked out of my flat in London since I couldn't afford to rent it out any longer as my army pension was running out. I remember that text I had received, 'Like getting your paws dirty Tiger? Xx'.

I laugh at that now, but when it happened, I was confused.

After that, we'd sent each other messages. Jim asked me what I user to do, and I told him that I used to be a Colonel in the army in Afghanistan. I asked him what he did for a living, and he never gave me a direct answer, he just gave me an address, a date and a time. Of course, after I met him, I quickly learnt what he did. James Moriarty, a consulting criminal. Clients gave him money, he killed people for them. Seemed like a win, win for both sides.

I soon became Jim's right-hand man. To his network, I was known as 'Second in command' or more commonly as, 'The second most dangerous man in London'. But to Jim, I was known as Tiger.

I never really used to understand that nickname, but now that I consider it more, I realise how much it suits me. I'm fairly solitary and I am not known for 'enjoying' company.

The only person I had learnt to put up with was Jim. Besides, his childish yet sadistic behaviour fascinated me, however strange that may sound, he always had a way of making you want to learn a tiny bit more about him, whether it may be what his next client wanted him to do, how he was going to kill a victim, or whether it was just when he was going to taunt Sherlock. Either way, he was a man that was far from boring.

Maybe that's why I liked him so much.

His obsession with Sherlock was like a drug, Jim was hooked. He couldn't leave the detective alone and in the end, it killed him.

I curse myself, I'd had so many chances to kill that damn curly-haired smart-ass but I never did it. But then again, I would've been defying Jim's orders and messing up his 'plans'.

You don't disobey James Moriarty. You just don't! I remember a few foolish employees had done that at least once or twice. It was amusing to watch them get burned.

I'd always willingly listen to Jim and follow his carefully planned out orders. I know a few people were envious of me. Apparently, according to the few jealous people in Jim's network, I was 'Moriarty's pet'. I'd learnt to shrug off the accusing glares and snarky comments or nicknames. With Jim, you were either important, or just there to do the dirty work. There was never any in between.

All these thoughts have come back to me, while I'm sat here, in mine and Jim's apartment, staring at the wall, with a bottle of whiskey in my hand.

I remember it all so vividly, I was crouched behind the window of a building, my rifle pointed at Sherlock's head as the detective contemplated whether or not to fall of the roof of St. Bartholomew's.

All I have left now are memories. People say that memories are things to look back on and enjoy, but the only thing that memories hold is pain. That numbing pain of knowing that things or people will never come back again.

I've got nothing left. Jim's network is falling to pieces and I have no motivation to go back and help out. It would just be even more torturous.

He's gone, and I have nothing left but memories and pain. Both were born to hurt, and they aren't failing.

I only have photos of him. Ink that has recreated his face on paper. I can't look at those pictures, it hurts too much. Instead, I've accustomed to drowning my thoughts in drugs and numbing my pain in alcohol.

Maybe one day, we can see each other. I don't believe in Heaven or Hell, or a God. They're just fantasies made up by people who have learnt to just grieve their entire lives and are attempting to prosecute a false hope.

I just want to see him again. Hear his soothing Irish accent, stare into his loving brown eyes and hear him say those very rare words that he only ever said to me, 'I love you'.

I may not believe that there is any place of solitude after death for the soul, but for Jim, I'll believe.

For Jim, I'll believe.

For our love, I'll believe.

As long as we get to see each other again, I'll always believe.

 **I hope you enjoyed this short story.**

 **The main focus of this was just to show how I write, I think of it as a sample to be honest.**

 **~ AmyMoriarty**


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